


The only home I need is my chest cavity

by Buttercup_ghost



Series: broken off limbs [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game), babydoll chara
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Body Dysphoria, Child Abandonment, Child Neglect, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gender Dysphoria, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Misgendering, Non-Binary Chara, Other, Pre-Canon, Pre-Fall, Pre-Series, Self-Hatred, Soft Chara, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, high society - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-15 10:11:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11803890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: Home is where the heart is





	1. Throw on your dress and put on your doll faces

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is indeed babydoll chara, who my friend made actually, and who I have permittion from, but if you aren't familiar with the ask blog they used to run (before they had to take it down due to unfortunate circumstances) that's ok too, as it's not really needed to understand this work (though, if you do have some context, the scissors and the version of charas outfit they wear might make more sense) this will be a three shots on 1) their life pre-fall, 2) their life with the dreemurrs, and finally 3) their death

Your face is packed with make up.

You feel heavy.

Your mom is hosting an event, again, like usual. Your pimples and bags, you haven't slept in days, are hidden under concealer and blush. You doubt that even in a hundred years the blush will come off, staining your cheeks. You want to rub it off, get rid of the stiffness, the cakiness, get it off, but you don't. You don't remember the last time someone touched your face, or pat your head. You sort of feel sick, but your stomach is empty, so even if you gag only acid comes up. You sigh, forcing any bile back down your throat, your shaky hands moving like static through fog. You want to pull your hair, feel the grounding sting, but mom would yell at you at you messed it up. So here you stay, staring into the mirror.

The girl in the reflection wears a plastic smile, a formal blue dress, and a little pink bow.

It's not you.

  
The party is the same as always, your mom's nails digging into your shoulders, her high pitched voice bragging about all you can do, a look at you saying not to make her a fool. You don't, even though you could, to tired to deal with punishment. Your fingers on the piano feel like lead.

You hope he's not here, at least, hope it's not his gaze you feel on you, hope that maybe, just maybe, he got into a car accident, or got mugged, and is lying somewhere bleeding out, far, far away.

  
You've never been lucky.

 

 

By the end of it, your hair is messy, dress haphazardly thrown on. Your mom makes a sound of disgust at your informal appearance, but does nothing more. She never does anything more, never does anything to stop it, and you don't think she ever will.

He's an important business man, after all, and ever since your dad left, a glare with his cold eyes before driving off forever, mom has done anything for money. She says love doesn't exist.

You think she might be using you.

 

  
You get a golden pair of scissors for your birthday. Not from you mom, no, but from a stranger at the party she holds for appearances. The party is ok, unlike usual, her mom letting you wear your brown fancy shorts, the ones with the suspenders, and lace at the end of its poof, along with your favorite green and yellow sweater. It's a rare occurrence, usually these clothes were stuffed to the back of the closet, despite being your favorite, and you're happy. You don't even mind the pink bow your mom places in your hair, in fact, it's kinda cute.

But then he comes, because of course he does.

 

  
The scissors are covered in blood.

He's in the hospital.

 

  
Your hair is gone, and you smile, feeling free. Your mom yells. You haven't changed since the party, everytime she tries to get you to, your scissors come in handy.

 

 

He's filing a lawsuit.

 

  
Your mom kicks you, when she learns, yelling. No amount of scissors brandishing stops her, and you can't muster up the courage to stab.

 

The next thing you know you're a crumpled bloody pile on the streets, abandoned.

 

  
There are lines on your arms.

You hear the legend of a mountain and you climb.


	2. Tearing at my skin leaving knives in my brain

You trip.

It's pathetic; you tripped on a _fucking_ _root_ , the world deciding that _surviving_ _the_ _fall_ wasn't enough, you had to screw up the _actual jumping_. What a fucking joke.

You laugh, blood in your mouth, bitter. It's funny, really, you think. You even fuck up dying.

You hate this.

You scream, scream, _scream_.

Somebody comes.

 

  
He is soft.

It is foreign.

 

  
He tells you of the underground, and the bones of sorrow it is built upon, how humans came and forced them to hide, kicked them out like they were mere objects, tossing them to the curb side. You can relate. You tell him of the stars, wave stories of parties and dresses, of golden scissors and mountains. He asks you why you would climb such a mountain, and you laugh. It is bitter, it is harsh, and it grates upon your tongue like sandpaper, till you cannot feel it, or the spiteful sounds it sings.

You hate humans, and you tell him as much.

You are a human.

When he cries for you, because of course asriel does, gentle, caring, _soft_ , asriel, you scoff. You don't see what's so upsetting; it's just a fact.

 

  
Toriel is caring, and kind, and it's confusing. She is a mother, no? So shouldn't she be like your own, barks and bites in equal measure, nails biting into your forearm. When you ask her as much, she starts to tear up. You don't understand.

 

  
Asgore shows your how to garden, and you love it. You can't tell the plants apart, really, but you love feeling the petals between your hands. Back in your village, you had always loved the golden flowers. Here, in the underground, there is no flowers like that, but they do have one close—buttercups. You love those flowers in particular, your hands burning whenever you hold them. You wonder why that happens, but brush it off. They were pretty, and reminded you of happier times in your village. After your mom had kicked you out, the flowers had become your home, and it's nice to see something at least semi familiar. You wonder if buttercups were edible too, like those golden flowers you had once slept on.

  
Toriel puts chocolate in the fridge, whenever she finds it. It's mainly sewer chocolate, but you appreciate it. Almost everything in the underground is from sewage, anyways, and it's much nicer down here than the service. No one besides you can eat chocolate, it's apparently toxic to boss monsters. You can't help but think they're similar to goats. So the chocolate that toriel puts in the fridge is yours and only yours, and you smile. It's nice, you think, as you watch mew mew kissy cutie two—it's better than the original, in your opinion, the character development adding so much more the table—stuffing chocolate in your face with reckless abandon. You puke, later, sick from so much, but you regret nothing.

 

 

The scars on your arm heal enough.

Your sweater turns into short sleeves.

 

 

  
After a while, you think you might, maybe, possibly, fit in. You start knitting, fingers numb and dull as you move your needles. It is a sweater— _mr dad guy_ —and you are proud. You're nervous, unsure that asgore would like the uneven stitching, but you decide that monsters are inherently good, unlike humans, and he will just be happy to have it. Asriel is still clambering to make him a gift, and you take pity on him, deciding to help him. He rambles, some, about how _he deserves the best he's a great dad blah blah blah_. You don't really pay attention; you know that asgore is pretty great already, though admittedly you don't have much to compare him to dad-wise, but the fact that he didn't book it as soon as asriel was born automatically makes him better than your own dad.

Somehow, you manage to sort through asriels babbling, and smile, deciding to make asgore some pie. It tastes good, one of his favorite foods, and seems easy to make, so you think, why not?

How hard can pie be to make?


End file.
